


Tastes for Two

by Smiles4U2



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alzheimer's Disease, Awkwardness, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Depressed Victor Nikiforov, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hungry Katsuki Yuuri, Jewish Character, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Proudly Canadian, Sad Victor Nikiforov, Thirsty Victor Nikiforov, Toronto, Wingman Phichit Chulanont, Yes I mean literally
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:05:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smiles4U2/pseuds/Smiles4U2
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov, owner of a struggling hipster Gluten Free bakery in downtown Toronto, is woefully unprepared for the sinfully delicious customer he encounters one fine blizzarding day.In which Yuuri just wants a snack but gets an eyeful of so much more, and Phichit is the only competent human.





	1. Hot Pink

**Author's Note:**

> Hey AO3 friends,
> 
> I've been sitting on this idea for a couple of weeks and finally decided to go for it. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think via comments and/or kudos! 
> 
> \- Smiles

A tinkling peal resounds from the homemade cutlery wind chimes, as Viktor’s first customers of the day – two boys in puffy Canada-goose parkas – stumble in from the cold.

 

Since his arrival about a decade ago in the Great White North, Toronto Winters have been consistently abysmal.

 

Today, he’s been blessed with a blizzard.

 

Which means he’ll need to shovel.

 

Or make his cousin Yuri do it.

 

Woot for small miracles, like grumpy kitchen helpers.

 

Though originally a spiritual and psychological labour of love, opening _Cock-A-Doodle Doo Gluten Free Bakery_ in the heart of downtown Toronto had sucked away just about all of Viktor’s very flamboyant blood, sweat, and tears.

 

For eons, it had been his dream to move as far away from Russia as humanly possible, attend a culinary school of world repute, and learn to craft the most astounding gluten free treats.

 

Now, several years out of gastronomic infancy and a recent (and disillusioned) graduate of the prestigious George Brown College program, Viktor has settled down with his cantankerous cousin and his polished, industrial-size mixer in a small rented studio near Christie station, ready to ply his trade.

 

But giving his beloved Motherland the middle finger by naming his enterprise the gayest of all conceivable titles had been intended to inspire him, to slide him and his business seamlessly into the ‘Hipster Lyfe’ vibe of the area… not land him in near bankruptcy.

 

Oh, right. The two customers.

 

Perhaps, these boys – likely, local college students, given their bulky backpacks - with their small wallets and liberal intentions, could singlehandedly lift his business out of impending ruin?

 

 _Yeah, not likely_ , Viktor snorts to himself sardonically, turning away from his latest recipe sketch.

 

Sliding seamlessly into a well-practiced counterfeit grin, Viktor looks up to offer the boys his customary, “Good morning, and what can I get you on this fine day?”

 

Only that doesn’t quite happen.

 

No.

 

It doesn’t quite happen because there is a literal _angel_ standing in front of him.

 

Viktor might be mentally drooling a little bit… oh ew, that’s gross, he can feel a dollop of wetness. It is definitely physical too. He covertly brushes the back of his right hand across his chin, hoping neither customer notices anything.

 

The taller boy – no, _hunk_ – has the most extraordinary chocolate brown eyes, the consistency of molten lava cake. His scrumptious button nose reminds Viktor of one of those beautiful edible pearls he’d taken to using on wedding cake designs, while a smattering of freckles dot his upper cheeks like the most delicate of powdered sugar biscotti accents.

 

Viktor wants to _be_ those freckles.

 

Even the light dusting of flurries in the gentleman’s velvety black hair can’t possibly detract from his appearance.

 

If anything, the ice speckles make Viktor simultaneously want to cuddle this man in a fire-warmed blanket, and lunge over the counter to straddle him now.

 

Ok, so it might be a bit long since he’s gotten any.

 

Neither of those inclinations are probably appropriate thoughts to be having about a customer.

 

Sigh.

 

Well, whatever he’d managed to utter had apparently translated his perfectly innocent intentions across, because the smaller of the two boys raises his eyebrow knowingly.

 

Damn it.

 

Luckily, _the angel_ maintains eye contact with only the sweets in front of him, complete oblivious to the baker’s infatuation.

 

“Hmm,” the angel hums in a non-answer to a question that Viktor, for the life of him, can’t recall voicing. “Actually, everything looks pretty delicious. What do you recommend?”

 

“Well, the sourdough bread is our bestseller,” the baker chokes out, “But my personal favourites are the feta cheese scones and the maple-blueberry muffins.”

 

Honestly, what is with this guy and not paying Viktor the slightest bit of attention? I mean he _knows_ his desserts are good looking – that is kind of the point. But he’s never had someone spend more time ogling his creations than him.

 

And for once, he actually wants someone to notice his balm-softened lips, his toned abs, and his artfully styled bangs… but maybe not his gradually receding hairline.

 

Mentally beating his ego into submission and willing himself not to take the boy’s obliviousness personally, Viktor patiently cocks an eyebrow.

 

“Great,” the boy finally decides, still refusing to give Viktor’s person the time of day. “I’ll take one of the raspberry jam-filled scones and one of the shortbread cookies.

 

 _Wait, did he just completely ignore all of my suggestions?_ Viktor takes a moment to confer with himself.

 

_Yes, yes he did._

 

_That is SO hot._

 

Finally, FINALLY the angel looks up, catching Viktor’s eyes with his.

 

And promptly blushes an alarming shade of tomato red.

 

“Hi-hi!” he mumbles.

 

“Hey,” Viktor suavely replies, keeping it real.

 

If Viktor is being honest, he would like to beg this guy (and his sinfully thick thighs) on bended knee to stay with him forever and never leave.

 

To _stammi vicino_ the fudge out of his depressed ass.

 

Not for the first time, Viktor curses himself for not making the front of his shop more customer-habitable. Why did he never think that setting up even one measly table with chairs was a good idea? He could have had a reason to invite the boys to stay until class time, to prop up their feet, and make themselves comfortable in his space.

 

Curse his anti-social cousin’s insistence that he didn’t want to spend his shifts cleaning up after a bunch of stuck up punks!

 

Viktor would gladly clean up after this guy _so hard._

 

By now, the two have been locking eyes over Viktor’s aptly labelled chocolate Eros éclairs for what probably amounts to an uncomfortably long period of time.

 

They are startled out of their reverie by an extended throat clearing.

 

“Yuuri, we should probably bounce. Class starts in Robart’s library in thirty.”

 

Huh. The angel shares nearly the same name as his cousin. Is it coincidence or fate?

 

“Yeah,” the angel-presumably-named-Yuuri replies, refusing to tear his eyes away from Viktor’s.

 

The friend just rolls his own, reaches his left hand into his overstuffed jean pocket, and produces enough toonies and loonies to cover Yuuri’s assortment of desserts.

 

Unceremoniously dropping approximately the right total on the counter, the smaller boy reaches over and pops the angel’s jaw closed with an audible _snap_.

 

Yuuri’s face somehow colours darker, if that’s even possible.

 

A part of Viktor mentally beams that he has been able to so completely move the object of his affections.

 

Finally realizing that now he’s going to actually have to do his job, Viktor quickly reaches for a paper bag emblazoned with his store’s less than appropriate logo - yes, it is indeed a rooster - and artfully manoeuvres Yuuri’s chosen treats into it.

 

“I’ll slip in a little something extra, just to tempt you to come back,” Viktor suavely offers, reaching for one of his cousin Yuri’s preferred chocolate-cinnamon biscotti.

 

(Viktor tries not to mentally log that he’s essentially giving away $3.25 of his quickly dying business to attract a delectable guy. Whatever. He’ll come to terms with it later with Makka over a bottle of vodka.)

 

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” counters the amused friend.

 

“Thanks for stopping by. Come back again sometime?” Viktor practically begs, eyeing Yuuri, who still hasn’t said anything.

 

“Sure. Have a nice day,” the friend chirps, dragging the-best-thing-that-has-happened-to-Viktor-in-months out of his midst.

 

As his cutlery wind chimes tinkle and Viktor finds himself alone again, he reaches up to trace his lips, shocked at himself.

 

This smile feels real.


	2. Purple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, several of you asked for it. So, ask and you shall receive, I guess. 
> 
> Please keep the tags in mind. Just like most real people, Viktor has highs and lows. In this chapter, we're seeing him deep in the throws of the latter.

Before Viktor knows it, three weeks have passed in a blur of exacting special orders, unpaid electrical bills, and rice flour explosions.

 

Despite his high hopes and his small biscotti-shaped sacrifice, the angel boy and his wingman still haven’t returned for seconds.

 

Even after reporting his shocking encounter to his peeved cousin in hi-fi detail, the baker is left to measure and mix and pour by his lonesome, lost in a fog of infatuated distraction.

 

Only when the dreaded wind chimes alert Viktor to the presence of a government auditor making his safety inspection rounds, does he realize that something needs to change. And fast.

 

“Oy, get your head out of your ass and help me box these cookies up!” demands Yuri, tiger-emblazoned apron covered in blobs of sticky jam, a couple of hours after having been put through the ringer for leaving a bottle open in view of the auditor.

 

“This is our first mass order in weeks and I won’t have you messing it up just because you’re too lovesick to think properly.”

 

“ _Da_ , Yura. Just give me a minute to clear up this mess and I’ll be there,” Viktor concedes heavily.

 

His whole body feels heavy with melancholy. He would love to curl up with Makka on his worn leather couch at home, pop a few xanex, and sleep this off for a couple of days, but that is unfortunately not an option. Not when they’ve somehow still got orders rolling in by the pound and an assortment of government agencies threatening to shut them down within the month if Viktor can’t get it together.

 

“Here, pass me those ones and I’ll-“

 

“Yeah, yeah moron. Have at it.”

 

Ok. So his cousin’s characteristic _endearments_ aren’t necessarily helping Viktor’s gutted state of mind right now. But fuck if he knows how to change that. At least he’s got someone from home here at all.

 

Once Yuri’s beloved grandfather had passed, it had been pretty simple to convince his cousin that it was time to move up and out of Mother Russia. Accidentally discovering his cousin’s stash of less than appropriate _Men for Men_ magazines had made his pitch significantly easier. It wasn’t like this kind of attraction was news for Viktor, but it certainly couldn’t be easily acted upon for either of them in their past predicament.

 

Yuri was now enrolled in Sheridan college’s prestigious musical theatre program, and working the bakery counter during his down time. While it is not like Viktor can afford to pay him the $15 per hour minimum wage that he rightfully deserves, at least he can cover his cousin’s tuition, so that’s something. For now, anyway.

 

“I’ve got a dance troupe gig tonight, so I’ll be out late,” Yuri huffs.

 

At least, between the snarks and growls, his cousin manages to show his appreciation by communicating with him.

 

“Alright. I’ll leave the porch light on. You’ll be ok to let yourself in?”

 

“Jesus, _yes_ Viktor. I’m not a child. I’ll be fine. Just don’t forget to feed Potya.”

 

“Ok.”

 

As his cousin pulls off his apron and drops it into the overflowing laundry hamper on his way out the door with little more than a grunt, Viktor turns back to his pile of gradually mounting expenses.

 

Setting pencil to paper, he pauses.

 

He’s got to find a way to get this under control, or he and his cousin are going to lose everything.

 

***

 

A loud **bang** from downstairs startles Viktor out of his melatonin-induced reverie. He was _so_ _close_ to asleep this time.

 

He can hear his cousin giggling drunkenly from the downstairs hall. And from the gruff second voice, it would appear that he’s not alone.

 

Christ. He’s _got_ to have a talk with Yuri about respecting his need to _sleep_ on week nights. Also, just about respecting general house boundaries.

 

The last time he’d walked in on his cousin balls deep in his best friend had _not_ been a pleasant experience for _any_ of them.

 

Shuddering slightly at the unfortunate memory, Viktor tries to roll over and just go back to sleep.

 

But after a few minutes of tossing and turning from his back to his front and flipping his pillow twice for good measure, he concedes defeat. Reaching blindly towards the approximate location of his side table, he fumbles his phone into his hand and glares as it lights up.

 

3:30am.

 

Well, he’ll have to get up in an hour to preheat the oven and set out the dough he’d left in the fridge yesterday anyway. What’s another hour of not sleeping? He might as well spend it on his feet instead of in bed.

 

Mentally cursing, Viktor flicks his side table lamp on and drags himself towards his en suite bathroom.

 

From her newly-claimed spot on Viktor’s pillow, Makka glares at him judgementally and lets out a soft ‘Boof.’

 

Yeah, though he’s trying to block it out, he too can hear the rapidly speeding squeaking of what can only be his cousin’s second-hand bedframe from down the hall.

 

With a soft ‘Meow’, Potya peaks her head around his door and leaps lightly onto his bed. Barely acknowledging his existence, she settles herself comfortably beside Makka.

 

So it is going to be one of _those_ days.

 

***

 

“We’ll need the customary five loaves of sourdough bread, thirteen cinnamon roles, and a bunch of those scrumdidili- what do you call ‘ems, please.”

 

“Sure. You mean the inside-outside brownies? I’ve got you covered. Coming right up, Mila.”

 

Ever since the first day of opening his business, he’d been lucky to call Mila and her partner Sara his best consistent customers. They owned the incredible vegan alternate restaurant down the street. Mila’s tempeh nuggets are to _die_ for.

 

They also constantly make sure to request enough weekly sandwich breads to keep his business afloat. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to admit just how grateful he is for them.

 

And how sorry he is that they probably won’t be his business neighbours or partners for much longer if he can’t get his act together.

 

Suddenly, an idea strikes.

 

“Hey Mila, I was wondering if you knew anybody who does accounting? I, well, I’ve got to be honest with you. Yuri and I are really struggling right now, and I’m not sure we’re going to last if we don’t find somebody seriously talented to help us out of this slump.”

 

He’s grateful when the look Mila shoots him is just on the far side of pitying. 

 

“Well, I can ask Sara. She’s taking some classes in business management down at UofT. Maybe she’ll have some good ideas for you?”

 

Viktor beams, grateful to his core. Knowing he probably shouldn’t, but also unable to help himself, he slips an extra walnut brownie – they’re Sara’s _favourite_ – into a paper bag, and smoothly tucks it in with the rest of the _Vegan Bae_ ’s order.

 

He then internally chastises himself for being unable to keep from logging the $2.50 in his mental excel spreadsheet column for the spendings that he’ll never get back.

 

Sometimes, he feels like the worst friend.

 

Slapping a smile on his face, he quickly thanks Mila for sharing her thoughts and her business, and sends her on her merry way.

 

Though he is grateful to be alone again, his self-imposed solitude doesn’t last for long. The wind chimes jingle cheerfully and a gust of well-directed cold air sends Viktor reaching for his extra sweater.

 

“Christophe! It’s been ages! How have you been?”

 

“Mon cher, I’ve been _sooo good_ ,” he purrs. Viktor is pretty sure that it is instinctual, by this point. “And how about you?”

 

“I’m- well, I’ve been better, honestly.” While he’d like to throw up his usual front, he knows he probably won’t get very far with Chris. Though his best friend might seem self-absorbed, he’s the furthest possible thing from it and has a remarkable talent for reading Viktor. He’s almost too good, at times.

 

“Well, is there anything I can do?”

 

“Yes, actually. Take me out. I want to get wasted and forget about everything. When are you free?”

 

“Tonight. But Viktor, are you sure this is a good idea?”

 

“No. I’m positive it is _the best_ idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and now you all probably have a pretty good idea of what is to come. ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are most welcome. 
> 
> P.S. While the excitement from the last chapter actually motivated me to bang this all out today, I unfortunately cannot promise equally quick updates going forward. I tend to write as the inspiration strikes me. I'm also a full time humanities PhD student, so that often throws a wrench into all of my well-intentioned writing plans. 
> 
> P.P.S. I am also never sure about ratings. There's certainly some darkness to Viktor's internal dialogue right now, and I currently don't have any sexy times planned... but that could change. So, is it cool with you if I leave things at a comfortable 'Mature' and hike it up as needed?
> 
> See you on the flip side, hopefully!


	3. Mauve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Friends,
> 
> Sorry it took me a little while to get this out. I was a bit undecided on where to go from the last chapter, so I made the executive decision that it was time for you to hear from Yuuri. 
> 
> Good things... like Drunk!Yuuri and Infatuated!Viktor... are always better when you are forced to wait for them. ;)
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> \- Smiles

“Jesus Christ, Phi! Oh yes!” moans Yuuri through his first mouthful. “This shortbread is to _die_ for.”

 

“You know, that kind of passionate response could probably get you the lead in a porno,” Phichit comments lightly, as Yuuri chokes and splutters.

 

Looking up over the top of his thoroughly highlighted and sticky-noted copy of Larry Hamberlin’s _Tin Pan Opera_ , Phichit - the traitor - just grins at him deviously, as a barely recovered Yuuri, wiping the tears out of the corners of his eyes, shoots him a petulant glare.

 

“I’m just glad you’re _enjoying_. Those desserts sure cost me enou- _OH MY GOD_ Yuuri! Did you just pop a giant boner over a _dessert_? Control yourself!”

 

“Oh shit, sorry,” Yuuri sputters, dropping some crumbs from his right hand as he grabs for his sweatshirt with his left. He’s just glad he decided to save his treats for home.

 

He didn’t expect them to be _nearly_ this sweet and savoury. The flavours of the shortbread dance the tango across his palette, igniting incredible amounts of passion.

 

Apparently, of a very inappropriate variety.

 

Though perhaps, this time, the sweets aren’t the only thing to blame.

 

Unceremoniously sprawled across their lo-fi living room following their _Intro to Musicology_ class (a necessity for Phichit’s major and an elective for Yuuri’s minor), the boys are finding all manners available to them to procrastinate on their steadily climbing mountain of readings.

 

For Yuuri, this involves distracting himself from school by further distracting himself from his embarrassingly instant massive crush on the most statuesque baker he’s ever laid eyes on … by eating said baker’s treats and thereby rendering himself decidedly un-statuesque.

 

Seriously, sometimes it doesn’t even seem fair how some people get to be _both_ talented and beautiful. Yuuri is quite certain that he’s been blessed with neither.

 

But this man, with the body of Adonis, and hair like starlight, and sapphire eyes as clear as the Caribbean oceans… _this man_ is going to be the death of him.

 

When Phichit had suggested that they go on a walk to clear his head after completing his giant midterm exam this morning, Yuuri had readily complied. What he hadn’t anticipated was for his head to be promptly filled up again by thoughts of a dreamy baker.

 

The shop’s name also hadn’t helped matters. It had kind of gotten his hopes up.

 

And clearly _raised_ other things.

 

But Yuuri’s always been kind of hesitant to _assume_ anything, because, you know, this baker could have had any number of possible reasons for naming his shop something so… queer?

 

“No, seriously, Phichit. I don’t think I’ve tasted anything this incredible since my diagnosis.”

 

Also, just the fact of the shop’s gluten-free-ness instantly endeared it to Yuuri. Diagnosed with celiac disease at age seven, he’s faced an uphill battle of finding safe locales with delicious food for consumption that won’t make him instantly suffer asthma attacks.

 

Yeah, with the back pain and the wheezing and the cramping and the inability to get in oxygen and the feeling of dying, it is kind of not worth eating contaminated food, at this point.

 

(Luckily, his mom’s Katsudon is naturally GF. That would have been a blow that Yuuri’s not sure his poor heart could handle.)

 

“Sooooo, you gonna go back and get some more of _that_ anytime soon?”

 

“More of what, Phi?” Sometimes, he’s found that it is better to play dumb with Phichit, honestly. The child is a menace.

 

“I will smack you with this pillow.”

 

Yep.

 

…

 

Amidst the explosions of school essays, reports, and exams that take over every facet of Yuuri’s life, he soon enough manages to forcefully shove the beautiful baker and his delicious delights from his mind.

 

Or, at least, that’s what he tells Phichit.

 

In truth, sometimes, when he’s grocery shopping or at the gym or just doing his homework at a local coffee shop, he’ll catch a glimpse of silver and spin around manically, only to be confronted with empty air.

 

One time, he’d even had to pretend his sudden movement was the result of a very violent sneeze, just to alleviate the embarrassing and concerned looks he’d attracted.

 

… The resulting kink in his neck had taken a full two days of stretching to work out.

 

The point being that every time, he gets his hopes up, and every time, he’s disappointed.

 

The thing he could do that’s so obvious it might as well be a necessity is to return to the bakery and buy more desserts and get to know the baker in person. Actually, this would probably be the most rational thing to do. And Yuuri always prides himself on being rational.

 

But also, in the vein of being anxious and hyper-rational…

 

… By now it has been nearly three weeks since his and Phichit’s first trip to the bakery and as the days trickle by, it seems rude not to have visited sooner, especially since the baker was so generous with that extra treat. It is also possible that the baker won’t even remember him because he certainly serves hundreds or even thousands of customers everyday, considering how good his products are. Also, it is very probable he won’t be working on the day or at the time Yuuri decides to visit. And Yuuri isn’t interested in being serviced by anybody else. More so, subway rides pile up and get expensive, so he’s been resisting reloading his Presto card until now so he can wait a little bit longer. To top it off, the guilt at not visiting yet has started to pile up to unspeakable levels and he can feel it eating him alive from the inside and just---.

 

No.

 

Better not to visit again.

 

Ever.

 

Better to just stay in bed, with the sheets pulled over his ears, where nobody will ever find him or talk to him or look at him or smile at him like the beautifulbakerwhosefaceandeyesandsmileandlaughYuurican’tpossiblyforget.

 

Damn it.

 

Well, his coping methods are clearly not working as well as he had hoped they might. On to option number two.

 

“Phichit?”

 

“Yeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh?”

 

“What would you say to going out tonight?”

 

“…I could be _persuaded_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a gentle reminder that feedback, comments, questions, kudos, bookmarks, shares, and interpretive dances are always appreciated and hugely motivational in inspiring me to continue writing. 
> 
> XO


	4. Burgundy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Chris and a special uninvited someone go out on the town!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.

The rest of Viktor’s day luckily passes him by much more quickly than his sluggish morning.

 

After convincing Chris to indulge in an Eros éclair or two while gushing about his latest fling – some guy named Masumi? - and ringing him up, Chris had willingly agreed to swing by Viktor’s house for take out and pre-drinks. From there, they’ve planned to head to the subway.

 

Chris is one of those people that constantly brings adventure with him wherever he goes. Their fortnightly ‘dates’ are always pretty crazy, with Chris planning out a plethora of activities that Viktor would never think to do on his own.

 

Last time, for instance, they’d hit up a prohibition-style speak easy, a frat party, a disco club, and _The Lockhart_ , the city’s only Harry Potter-themed bar, all in one night and not necessarily in that order. It had been … eclectic, to say the least, but Viktor wasn’t complaining. That’s what had made it so awesome.

 

Their evening arranged, Viktor bids his friend goodbye, tosses a tray of day-old blueberry muffins in a box to give to the sweet homeless man – Jean Jacques, was it? – down the block, and heads towards home.

 

About six months ago, Viktor had fortuitously happened upon a ‘For Rent’ ad posted in the _Toronto Star_ by a retired elderly Russian-Jewish couple. Their home had been located barely one subway stop away from his storefront. Though they were now comfortably settled at _Baycrest Home for the Aged_ , the couple – Yakov and Lilia Feltsman - visited from time to time, with the wife doting on Yuri and offering ballet advice from way back in the good old days when she had starred as a prima ballerina at the Bolshoi, and the husband sharing hearty vodka and Borscht recipes of the old world with Viktor.

 

The Feltsmans had also given Viktor a mega-discount on rent, which never went amiss for a strapped-for-cash specialty baker, fully supporting his younger cousin.

 

Though the time between their visits had started to increase, having Yakov and Lilia in the city was nice.

 

Almost like having a real family.

 

Anyway, ten minutes of speed walking while multi-tasking - scrolling through facebook and twitter, followed by two games of vicious candy crush - are enough to land Viktor at his front door.

 

After taking Makka for a quick zip around the block, washing and refilling her food and water bowls, and offering her copious amounts of belly rubs, treats, and affection, Viktor begins to contemplate what he should wear for the evening.

 

Standing in front of his carnivorous walk-in closet, he decides that he might as well dress to impress. It is not like he’ll have a good reason (or enough money to spare) to go out again any time soon.

 

Pulling on a pair of beiges kakis that highlights his _ass_ ets and a blue button down, Viktor grabs his keys and wallet, and makes his way downstairs.

 

Now there’s only one thing left for him to do. And it is not going to be easy.

 

“Yura, don’t wait up for me. I’m going out with Chris.”

 

Yeah. Dissuading the small tiger in his living room from pouncing…and he doesn’t mean Potya.

 

Though Viktor tries to keep it nonchalant, his slight voice crack gives away his internal monologue.

 

Shit.

 

Just as he fears, Yuri immediately looks up from his Nintendo, a flash of indignation darting across his face.

 

“Alright- wait, what?! You never go out on week nights!”

 

Viktor gives up and admits defeat. There’s no pretending to be fine when he’s feeling like this.

 

“Yeah. I need, well. I need _something_. I shouldn’t be gone too long. We’ll probably just end up at---” Viktor replied.

 

And, of course, his cousin does entirely the last thing he wants him to.

 

“Well then, I’m coming with you!”

 

Viktor is quick to jump in, not above begging for solitude. “No, really! Don’t. You have homework. I’ll be fine, Yura, I-”

 

Before Viktor can get out the rest of his protest, his cousin is on his feet, shutting off his game with a huff and shoving his toes back into the leopard print socks he had kicked off presumably before settling in for the night.

 

“Oh no you don’t, old man. I don’t trust you not to get wasted and I am NOT raking out the flowerbed again when you projectile vomit into it,” Yura demands, stuffing his keys and cellphone into his jeans. “That was super nasty last time!”

 

“That wasn’t me,” Viktor sighs, quickly losing hope but still gunning for a way out of his predicament. “It was Chris’ hook up. Besides, you don’t even like Chris and that’s who I’m going with.”

 

“Yeah, whatever. I can survive one night with the creeper,” Yuri replies, already reaching for his leather jacket and shrugging it on. Apparently, this isn’t up for discussion.

 

“I don’t even know where we’re going.”

 

“Well, anywhere else is better than being stuck here with your forlorn a---“

 

Lucky for Yuri’s face and Viktor’s ego, the doorbell blares.

 

Chris has arrived, so the party can begin.

 

\--

 

Yeah, so Viktor’s kind of pissed.

 

No. That's an understatement.

 

He's really fucking pissed.

 

Apparently, his whole plan to get raging drunk and pull out his ‘mopey Dead Poet Society’ aesthetic especially reserved for nights on the town with his Quebecois friend, had been ix-nayed as an option this evening. For once, Chris had decided to be _sensible_. 

 

“Chris, when I said, and I quote, ‘ _Take me out, I wanna get wasted and forget about everything_ ,’ I did NOT mean let’s go to a Choir!Choir!Choir! sing along!”

 

“Aw, cheer up butter cup! It will be fun, mon ami!”

 

Viktor just glares at him, while Chris airily waves him off with a daintily manicured hand.

 

“Besides, you never pass up a chance to hit up _Crews & Tangos_, so what is there for you to complain about? You get great butts who are looking for what you’re looking for and good music.”

 

“I’m with Viktor on this one,” grumps Yuri, already pulling out his phone for a distraction. “What could possibly be fun about watching a bunch of old drunk people sway around and sing off key for multiple hours? I listen to great singing all day. I don’t need this bullshit in my down time.”

 

“Keep it down, Yuri,” Viktor whisper-shouts, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the pointed looks that a middle-aged, handholding lesbian couple are shooting them from a couple of feet away.

 

… Getting kicked out of a queer sing along because of his cousin’s vivacious tongue would just be the _bloody_ icing on the cake of this diamond-encrusted evening.

 

(So sue him. He lives in Canada. That’s basically North American Britain. He can appropriate Harry Potter swears if he damn well wants to.)

 

“Great! I’ll get the drinks!” Chris cheers, as though the matter has been settled. Leaping to his feet, he sways his way into the gradually thickening crowd, towards the central bar.

 

From the stage, the leaders announce that the first song they’ll be learning is Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb.” 

 

Great. So even the song title captures Viktor's inner turmoil. There's no escape.

 

From the stage, a heavily pierced and tatted dude with a brownish bowl cut proclaims from behind his plastic keyboard and drum set that they'll be learning tonight's song in "Four! Part! Harmony!”

 

"Oh brother," Yuri groans morosely, dropping his forehead into his hands in defeat. Viktor absently wonders whether he's regretting his decision to tag along yet.

 

Sensing all hope is lost, Viktor slides off of his sticky stool and follows Chris into the crowd.

 

At least he'll be able to order several shots of hard liquor and block this memory out for all of eternity.

 

He highly doubts that tonight there will be anything worth remembering.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Your Listening Pleasure, Toronto’s Choir!Choir!Choir! sings Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=edLSZsD7G4o
> 
> … sorry that every fic I write beyond one chapter apparently devolves into a fully fledged sing along. It actually wasn’t intentional or planned this time, I swear. I just needed the boys to go somewhere no one was expecting and/or that no one had written before and/or that actually exists in Toronto. And then, my mind went here. 
> 
> Anyway, if you are enjoying and/or following along, please let me know! Since you are my fire, my one desi- Ok, I'm done.
> 
> Write me, maybe?


	5. Florescent Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment you've all been waiting for?

“Come on, Yuuri! You know you love this! There’s just something about communal singing that gets the blood pumping!”

 

Sweat drips unappealing down Yuuri’s forehead. The bar is packed with tipsy Torontonians; sweltering hot, slick bodies are compressed together like sardines. Yuuri scrunches up his nose in distaste, hating that he can feel wetness beading on his lower back. He shifts from foot to foot, not at all amused that he can’t put one foot down without it sticking right to the floor.

 

A very happy Phichit simply beams at him from where he is comfortably perched on the last available bar stool. Great.

 

“I can’t believe you, Phichit. Actually, I take that back. I _can_ believe you. But this is so _not_ what I had in mind for tonight. And I need a damn drink.”

 

“Ooooohhhh, feisty.” Phichit just casually blows hot air at him, before taking a swig from his contraband ice-cold water bottle.

 

Yuuri harrumphs.

 

Phichit must have decided that even Yuuri can manage on his own, because he’s already reaching for his iPhone to check the re-tweet count on his latest post. Past experience indicates to Yuuri that his friend will be lost to the world of social media for a couple of minutes at least.

 

From the makeshift podium in the center of the room, the five-piece band begins to tune their instruments and test out speaker levels.

 

For the time being, Yuuri decides to just assume his friend’s drink order. Since the backs of Phichit’s hands have already been visibly X-ed in black, he’ll stick to non-alcoholic options for now and grab his friend an iced tea. He can always try to wash them off and sneak him something a little stronger later.

 

Maybe Yuuri’ll go for vodka on the rocks? It has been a rough couple of days, after all.  He barely managed to finish the citations on his directed study paper. He’ll have to forgive his young friend for being a jerk, he supposes. There’s truly no way he would have made it where he is if not for his roommates’ constant nagging and— ** _Oooph-SPLASH!_**

****

A freezing, wet, and distinctively light blue splotch that faintly smells of blue raspberries spreads slowly across the front of Yuuri’s white-pressed shirt.

 

Well, at least he isn’t overheating anymore.

 

“Oh, SHOOT! I am _so_ sorry about that! Please let me grab you a towel or something!,” a silky, accented voice apologizes profusely, reaching for Yuuri’s arms to help steady him.  “Oh God, this is such a mess. There’s no way stain remover will take care of that, I mean I should know, shouldn’t I?”

 

“Don’t worry about it, it is pretty packed in here and it was a cheap shirt anyway. I’ll just be going now---”

 

Wait.

 

There’s something awfully, painstakingly familiar about that voice.

 

And those hands that are still wrapped around his upper body as if they belong there.

 

A deep whiff confirms his dawning suspicion… beyond the chemical blue raspberry flavouring of his drink dregs, this man smells suspiciously like freshly baked rice flour scones.

 

No. Nononononono.

 

This isn’t happening. Not when Yuuri feels extraordinarily disgusting and he’s drink-less and covered in blue raspberry goo and alone.

 

It is simply not possible.

 

Yuuri must be hallucinating. Yep, that’s definitely it. He’s cracked under the pressure of exams and essays, and now he’s literally imagining his Russian wet dream in the flesh everywhere he goes.

 

For all he knows, the man might not even be in Canada anymore! In fact, maybe the whole encounter with the meeting and the flirting and the not-so-subtle ‘call me later?’ was simply the product of an intense fever dream, post-exam.

 

Yes. That makes much more sense. Much more sense than the Russian baker attending the UofT LGBTQ community sing along better known as Choir!Choir!Choir!

 

Just to be sure, Yuuri nearly chances a look up, but fights himself to keep his head down. He can’t afford another neck kink due to seeing a certain Russian beauty everywhere he looks and---

 

“Oh. It _is_ you! I’ve been waiting for you to come back to my shop! Why haven’t you come to visit me lately?” The mystery man asks, excitement colouring his voice.

 

Ok. Yuuri has just about run out of options. He’s got to look now. The guy, whoever he is, is talking to him. It would be rude not to. And good Canadians don’t do rude. Even second-generation immigrants from Japan.

 

Slowly, Yuuri’s eyes trail from the sticky floor up the guy’s snugly fitting beige kakis, past a soft-looking blue shirt hiding what looks like a rather well-defined torso until they reach---

 

Yep.

 

It is him.

 

Yuuri’s baker.

 

Though this time, he doesn’t have flour paste topping one eyebrow or the Food of the Gods in front of him, that does not at all diminish the guy’s attractiveness. Maybe the exact opposite is true. Now, all clean and spiffy, he looks even more heartbreakingly beautiful and unapproachable.

 

This guy is _so_ out of his league.

 

But GOD does Yuuri _want_.

 

Once Yuuri’s pretty sure he’s been gaping at the guy for a solid two minutes, silver stallion breaks the silence.

 

Adonis speaks.

 

“You know, we’ve got to stop running into each other like this.”

 

And the line is just so bad and so cliché and so cheesy that Yuuri can’t help it. He cracks a small smile, which quickly morphs into a slightly hysterical belly laugh, and about braves his nerves to offer a similarly cheeky response when----

 

“Yuuri my man!” Phichit rambunctiously barrels in, slipping an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, and completely unaware that he is interrupting one of the most formative moments of Yuuri’s life since his visit to the bakery several weeks ago, moving into the school dorms, and trying his mother’s Katsudon. “There you are! I was wondering where you’d gotten off t-OH.”

 

“Hello!” Viktor exclaims brightly.

 

“Hey there,” Phichit replies unfazed. His eyes narrow deviously as he takes in a flailing, blue-splotched best friend standing too close for comfort to the unruffled baker holding a nearly empty pitcher. “What are _you_ doing out and about on this fine Tuesday night? Don’t you have gluten free muffins to bake or something?”

 

Viktor actually pouts.

 

“You know, bakers need nights off, too,” He counters sullenly.

 

Wow. Viktor kind of acts like a child, Yuuri notes absentmindedly. Apparently, even Gods can have flaws.

 

“So, can I buy you a drink to make up for nearly knocking you off your feet?”

 

“Actually, I think you might have done that already. You should definitely buy him a drink, though,” counters Phichit, deliberately avoiding Yuuri’s death glares.

 

“ _Actually_ ,” Yuuri cuts them both off, “I think I’m going to head home and change. It isn’t going to be comfortable standing around here all night in a wet shirt.”

 

“Great!” chimes Viktor happily, “I’ll walk you home! It is the least I can do, after all. Let me find the people I came here with and let them know that I’ll be heading out,” he continues, already finding the nearest empty surface on which to slide his nearly empty pitcher. “Wait here for me. I’ll be right back.”

 

And, like a mythical creature of unknown proportions, the baker vanishes into the void of swaying bodies, leaving behind a gaping Yuuri and a smirking Phichit in his wake.

 

“Get it, Yuuri!” Phichit exclaims cheerfully.

 

“I can’t do this.” Yuuri whispers to himself, amidst the rising harmonizing of Pink Floyd. “Not today. I’ll see you at home, Phi.”

 

For all of Yuuri’s many flaws, he can read his body. And right now, his body is telling him that if he doesn’t leave this place immediately, he’s going to be a broken, shuddering, anxiety-ridden mess on the sticky bar floor.

 

“But Yuuri! Don’t you see, this is your chance! And you deserve each---“

 

“Don’t quote _Wicked_ at me right now, Phichit. I get what you were trying to do, but I’m sorry. I need to go," Yuuri murmurs harshly, slipping his wallet from his pocket, carefully sliding out his driver's license, and pressing it into Phichit's befuddled hands, "Here’s my ID for your drinks.”

 

Yuuri immediately feels a bit bad about snapping at Phichit, but he’s unwilling to take it back. He’s got to take care of himself first right now. And what he needs is a clean shirt, his fuzzy weighted blanket, and a cup of strong green tea.

 

So, without waiting for Phichit’s reply or the baker's return, Yuuri hightails it out of the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I hope that you enjoyed the chapter. If you are still here and reading along, I'd love to hear what you think. 
> 
> Also, sorry for the unexpected angst. 
> 
> Finally, I apologize for falling off of the face of the AO3 earth. I've had a rough couple of months, which culminated with the scariest four day exam of my academic career. But I passed! So yay!
> 
> Ok, that's all for now, folks.


	6. Beige

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri drags Viktor to seek "Yuuri" advice from the Feltsmans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning in End Notes

“What am I going to do? He HATES me, Yakov!” Viktor whined miserably to their bemused landlord for the third consecutive time that visit, as a peacefully slumbering Lilia puffed out a breath lightly in her wheelchair by her husband’s other side.

 

After the Choir!Choir!Choir! incident, Viktor had taken a sick day … or two or three … to contemplate the meaning of life (and recover from his abysmal hangover). Finally, Yuri had had enough and dragged his elder out of bed, onto the subway and streetcar, and to Baycrest in order to visit their adoptive family.

 

If anyone could talk Viktor out of his own woes and back into reality, it was the gruff yet kind-hearted Yakov. Their pseudo-grandfather figure had a dry yet humorous outlook on such things like love, meaning that he had more likelihood than anybody else of snapping the flamboyant Viktor out of his histrionics.

 

“… and then – are you still listening to me, Yakov? – after Yuuri visited my bakery ONE time, I had to go and spill the entirety of my blue-rasper-twister all down his white polo the next time I got to see his glorious face! And THEN I was going to walk him home to get a change of clothes and maybe take him for dinner and get to know him better, but I turned my back for _a split second_ to tell Chris where I was running off to and poof, he’s gone!” Viktor bemoans in a mock-whisper, tossing his arms up with abandon. The tea Yakov has brewed him has long gone cold, but he’s past caring.

 

“He sounds like a regular Cinderella,” agreed Yakov lightly, patting Viktor’s knee.

 

“Exactly! So, what am I supposed to do now?” Viktor asks. “It’s not like I can put up ‘Wanted’ posters that say ‘seeking one Japanese angel and probable University of Toronto student named Yuuri: will pay in gluten free baked goods’ because I barely have any of those to spare!”

 

“For the love of God, would you STOP with the ‘Yuuri’ this and ‘Yuuri’ that?” cried his cousin, gesturing violently with the one hand that wasn’t furiously petting Potya. “Yakov, _please_ save me. If I have to hear him moan about that piggy one more time, I’m actually going to be sick all over your carpet, _and then_ I’m gorge his eyes out with a spoon.”

 

Six months previously, Yuri had found a way of covertly sneaking his tabby cat into the nursing home in a duffel bag. Even once the strictest head orderly, Mr. Karpisek, had found out about Potya’s secret visits, he hadn’t ratted Yuri out.

 

(Since the couple’s recent move onto Baycrest’s Alzheimer floor for Lilia’s sake, the staff had been having a hard time calming her down. She was frequently confused, wondering where most of her creature comforts and ballet paraphernalia had gone from her former home and glory days. The orderlies, under Yakov’s instruction, tried to play Lilia songs from Tchaikovsky’s _Swan Lake_ and Prokofiev's _Romeo and Juliet_ in order to help her settle in, but to no avail.  Her fits, resembling panic attacks, increased in severity, until she met Potya, Yuri’s fur baby, who had currently taken up residence in her lap.

 

When, on one unlucky day, Mr. Karpisek had arrived too early to drop off groceries, Yuri had been beside himself, worried he would throw him and his cat out of the Feltsman’s apartment, and even worse, upset Lilia. Though he hadn’t been pleased to see Potya (Mr. Karpisek was allergic to cats), he could see the positive impact that her close contact was having on his elderly client. When Yakov growled with finality that Potya reminded Lilia of her own Siamese kittens from a former life and that she would stay or they wouldn’t, that had been that. No one wanted to risk losing the respect of the Feltsmans, some of the biggest lifetime institutional donors to the facility.)

 

“He’s an angel, not a piggy,” Viktor replied sullenly, “And what did I ever do to deserve such cruelty, Yakov?” he questioned melodramatically, lifting himself heavily off the couch, sashaying in place, and flopping backwards onto the Feltsmans’ queen sized bed to further make himself at home. Yakov’s eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement.

 

The Feltsmans’ fourth floor suite at Baycrest was cramped but homey. Pictures of their actual grandchildren, whom Viktor and Yuri didn’t like to think about too hard, plastered the walls, and remnants of Lilia’s half-finished knitting projects littered every available surface. She’d promised Yuri a jumper some time ago, but he wasn’t holding her to it.

 

“That’s quite enough of that, boys. You’ll wake up Lilia,” Yakov firmly replied. “Besides, these matters of the heart have a way of working themselves out. You’ll see.”

 

“I thought you were supposed to be on _my_ side, Yakov. So mean!”

 

“SHUT IT ALREADY!”

 

“Hmm?” asked a sleepy Lilia, blinking to wakefulness. “Oh! Alexei, you’re here for a visit. What a long time it’s been!”

 

“No, Lilia,” replied Yuri with uncharacteristic gentleness. “It’s not Alexei. It’s me, Yuri. Viktor’s here, too.”

 

“How nice of you both to come,” she smiled at the boys, a concerning vacancy taking over her expression, causing Yakov’s smile to dampen slightly.

 

The boys could see the toll Lilia’s declining health was taking on her husband. She was both there and not there much of the time, slipping from moments of lucidity into moments of confusion and anger faster than the blink of an eye. Once, Yakov had told Viktor in whispers on the phone, she’d even thought they were back in the time of their five-year divorce, and demanded that Yakov leave their apartment. That had been the worst of her episodes. Viktor’s heart still hurt just thinking about it.

 

“Well, Yuri and I had better get going,” Viktor conceded softly. Lilia had already begun to slip back into a light sleep.

 

“Thanks for stopping by, boys,” Yakov said, grabbing his cane and making to lift himself out of his worn armchair. “I’ll see you out.”

 

“Please don’t trouble yourself too much,” Viktor said, gesturing for him not to get up. Yakov, as usual, completely ignored him and followed the two humans and one cat to the door with a hobble, stepping forward to unlock the latch for them as Yuri plopped Potya back into her carrier.

 

“Don’t wait so long to come by next time. I’ve missed you. We’ve missed you.” Yakov amended, reaching to shake Yuri’s hand, followed by Viktors’.

 

“We won’t,” Yuri said with a smile, carefully shouldering Potya's carrier. “Bye now.”

 

“Dasvidenya,” the elder replied, shutting his front door with a light click.

 

Neither Viktor nor Yuri spoke for a while, as they waited for the elevator to arrive and pressed the button for the ground floor.

 

“She’s a lot worse off than last time,” Yuri said quietly as they reached the Koffler auditorium and headed back towards public transit.

 

“Yeah,” agreed Viktor, also saddened, though his racing mind was already light-years away.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi AO3 friends,
> 
> Chapter Warning: It is revealed that Lilia suffers from mid-stage Alzheimer's disease. This may be upsetting to those with family or friends with the condition; I know from first hand experience with my late grandfather that it is a terrible disease which can deeply hurt a relative's loved ones.
> 
> I'll aim for more fluff and Yuuri/Viktor time in future updates. This visit with Yakov and Lilia was essential for plot development.
> 
> Also, I apologize again for the unannounced month-long silent hiatus, BUT I wrote this chapter especially for you on a flight from Santorini to Paris on my 3.5 week Europe trip, so... forgive me? :)
> 
> Even if I am a terrible responder, I read all of your comments and appreciate everything you share with me. Pretty please keep them coming, as they give me motivation to keep writing for you. 
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Smiles
> 
> P.S. Tags will be updated to account for Lilia's condition.


	7. Olive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri tries again (and fails again) to forget about Viktor. He also gets rather violently shoved out of his metaphorical nest and in a new direction.

_His breath stutters as Viktor prowls, serpent-like, across the wooden floor to kneel between Yuuri’s spread legs._

_A lone long pale index finger trails slowly up the inseam of his jeans, kick-starting his fiercely palpitating heart into overdrive._

_Kaleidoscopic blue eyes stare heatedly up into his own, pinning him in place, though he knows he wouldn’t move even if he possessed the capability._

_Viktor sensuously licks his lips as he reaches out with both of his delicate hands to unbuckle Yuuri’s belt._

_Hot desire flares low in his belly, a desperation mirrored in Viktor’s smirk and posturing._

_“Finally, you’re mine, Katsudon fatale of the n---”_

 

It is the, quite frankly, rude and repeated snapping in his face that finally gets Yuuri's attention, startling him out of his progressively heated daydream.

 

“…And, HEY YOU STILL WITH ME? So, with my purple rice flour lasagne and lemon-dressed Caesar salad, I’ll also have a side order of the crispy tempeh bacon – I mean, like, EXTRA crispy, not just what ever you called that excuse for crispy last time – with a bottle of guava-raspberry juice on the side. Oh, and I want ALL of it brought out together,” Pink Haired Chick (PHC) said, serenely smiling up at Yuuri as if to disguise the true colors of her innate devil spawn.

 

“Co-coming right up,” he replies pseudo-cheerfully over the restaurant’s din, belatedly coughing to mask his stutter. 

 

Efficiently folding up his notepad and turning on his heel to hide the light blush dusting his cheeks, Yuuri manoeuvres his way between cramped tables, rickety chairs, and buzzing guests. He’s eager to get away from PHC before she can tack yet another obscure menu item onto her order.

 

Though most of the time, larger customer orders mean larger tips (for which Yuuri is grateful), the long-awaited increase in minimum wage meant he’d be fine this week without having to rely on PHC’s generosity. Thank you, Ontario.

 

Get-away complete, Yuuri releases a breath he didn’t realize he was still holding and swings behind the cash register to manually input the order. That done, he turns around and rattles off the long list of vegetarian delicacies to a cheerful, potato pancake-flipping Mila in the kitchen. She winks at him sereptiously.

 

It’s a good thing she has no idea where his mind has been this shift.

 

His cheeks reheat just thinking about it.

 

For a blustery Wednesday afternoon, _Vegan Baes_ is crowded, students with few cares chattering to one another while spending their blissfully ignorant parent’s money on exorbitantly priced speciality products.

 

Sometimes, Yuuri has to full body shudder at how expensive their smoothies are. Seriously, who pays $13.95 for an almond butter-banana smoothie?

 

Working for Sara and Mila at _Vegan Baes_ had kind of fallen into his lap at the beginning of his senior fall semester. Noticing that his reserved friend was twiddling his thumbs between classes, but unwilling to return home to his parents’ restaurant in need of work, devious Phichit had taken the liberty of printing off Yuuri’s resume from his computer and delivering it to a handful of local businesses.

...Phichit had had quite a bit of explaining to do when Mila had called Yuuri the following day, looking to schedule his interview.

 

Luckily for everybody involved, Yuuri had gone along with it, securing a nearly instantaneous part time job and an influx of pocket change. Thank you Phichit.

 

Yeah, so Phichit. The mess with his best friend was probably something Yuuri would need to confront at some point.

 

Since the night at the club, their conversations had been…strained, to say the least.

 

Sighing to himself, Yuuri shakes his head wearily. He knows that he should probably buck up and apologize for leaving his young, albeit naggy, friend by himself at a club on their mutually agreed upon night out together, let alone snapping at him before disappearing. Phichit had only been trying to help in his own way.

 

For the most part, Yuuri had shoved the disastrous evening at Choir!Choir!Choir! from his mind and committed to concentrating on what lay ahead. His first priority had to be on replenishing his rather dehydrated social life. If all went to plan, he’d be graduating in the spring and he’d have little to show for it other than a piece of crisp off-white cardstock, the freshman fifteen, and an impressive blood-alcohol tolerance.

 

While mulling over his friendships and fate, he’d somehow managed to completely block out Sara, who’d clearly been trying to get his attention for the past couple of minutes.

 

“Yuuri! Earth to Yuuri!”

 

“Sorry, what did you say?”

 

At his reply, Sara just shook her head, huffing in ill-concealed frustration. “This job clearly isn’t working for you. Every day, you leave here even more miserable than when you arrived.”

 

“What! What do you mean?” Yuuri whisper-cried, trying not to alarm any customers, “That’s not true. I’m happy! See? Happy, happy, happy!”

 

His manic smile fooled exactly nobody.

 

“Yuuri?”

 

“No! I need this job! I love this job!”

 

“Yuuri!”

 

“…okay, fine. You’re right. I hate this job. But I don’t have any alternatives on the table right now, so I really do need this job. I can be better though, I promise.”

 

“Actually, I have an alternative for you. A local friend of Mila’s is having a hard time getting his small business’ finances in order. He’d asked her a while back if she knew of anyone who might be able to help him, and I immediately thought of you.”

 

“Me? Why me?”

 

Tossing her long, dark hair out of her violet eyes, Sara grinned. “Because I don’t know of any other double degree math and accounting majors with musicology and Russian minors who are better at mental math and problem-solving than you.”

 

“That’s so not true. I bet at least half of our department, including you could-”

 

“What’s 1455 divided by 15?”

 

“97.”

 

“48 times 1.5?”

 

“32.”

 

“5!”

 

“120. That one was easy.”

 

“The square root of-“

 

“OK! I get it! I can do mental math. So, now what?”

 

Her answering smirk was positively diabolical.

 

“Now, I officially tender your resignation," she chirped, smuggly. "No hard feelings, right?”

 

“Hurrumph…I guess not.”

 

“Good.” The sincerity in her voice was marred slightly by the Cheshire cat grin overtaking her features.

 

“- and then, you’ll be here tomorrow at 4pm to meet Mila’s friend and save his small business, along with his hopes and dreams. Kapish?”

 

“Sure Sara,” he agreed, sighing heavily. It appeared he didn’t have much of a choice.

 

“Don’t worry, Yuuri. Once you see this guy, you’ll be thanking me on bended knee. Not that I’d know, but he’s apparently something reeeeaaaal nice to look at,” she said, not so subtly sneaking up behind Mila, spinning her around into a dip, and planting a dramatic smack of a kiss directly onto her surprised, slightly parted lips, to the amused whooping of several nearby customers.

 

“Uh… Huh.”

 

Well, that was that. Still not quite able to process what had unfolded in the last five minutes, Yuuri slowly untied his apron and dropped it over the counter, before making his way in a daze to the employee exit.

 

“Until tomorrow, Yuuri!” Sara called after him, swinging her now vertical girlfriend’s hand with her left and waving goodbye to him with her right.

 

“Yes, until then.”

 

Bowing his head against the tepid spring wind, Yuuri shuffles outside and into the unknown.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks,
> 
> To those still with me on this incredibly inconsistently updated journey, thank you for your ridiculous patience. 
> 
> To those who may have just picked up this story on a whim, welcome! :)
> 
> If you have any theories concerning the next chapter, I'd love to hear them. Now that the school year is back in full swing, I'm hoping (but not promising) that updates might be a bit more frequent.
> 
> Comments, kudos, bookmarks, interpretive dances, and original compositions always appreciated.
> 
> XO,
> 
> Smiles

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> P.S. If you would like to see this expanded and turned into a multi-chapter fic, please let me know! I'm open to the idea if you think it has potential and it is something you would enjoy. :)


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